


And For a Moment the Earth is Still

by Mercury17



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 22:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13750224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercury17/pseuds/Mercury17
Summary: Max De Brynn often ponders the fact his job always takes him to damp places.  Death seems to settle in dank corners, thrive in the mouldered and rotten parts of the world.  He is used to the squelch of mud under his shoes, the creeping surge of the river, the seep of body and easy flow of tears.  Pathology was not a dry job.Post Cartouche Max catches up with Morse.





	And For a Moment the Earth is Still

Max De Brynn often ponders the fact his job always takes him to damp places. Death seems to settle in dank corners, thrive in the mouldered and rotten parts of the world. He is used to the squelch of mud under his shoes, the creeping surge of the river, the seep of body and easy flow of tears. Pathology was not a dry job.

He is somewhat surprised at this job therefore when, on pulling up outside the burnt-out cinema to examine those who had not made it out of the fire, he breathes in dry air. He should have expected that at an arson really. His first inhalation pulls the moisture from his mouth and settles dust in its place. He coughs in the acrid morning, the remains of the building's decades-old innards disturbing his lungs. It is a grim reminder that for all his job is hardly pleasant, fire is something he rarely comes across and can never get used to. He relies on the fire brigade to save him the trouble.

The job doesn't take long; there isn't much left and what is there speaks honestly. Max leaves the building's shell, the duty of reporting to the police welcomed this time. He notes sadly that his shoes and bag are now coated with a thin layer of ash. The bottom of his bag has suffered particularly badly, thick charcoal smudges all across the leather. Ash is a lot easier to clean than mud, but the former bothers Max far more. 

Thursday and Morse are standing by their car waiting for his report. Max isn't used to making deductions about the living but he reads them easily enough: Thursday would have left hours ago but for Morse wanting to see the case through, and Morse isn't in a fit state to be left here alone, and Thursday has decided not to push the issue with his young sergeant. 

Thursday gives him a brisk "Morning," and Morse moves to give a greeting but gives him a choked cough instead and clutches his chest, a look of if not quite pain then discomfort on his face. Thursday gives Max a look from behind Morse's back that's part frown and part eye roll that lets Max know not to ask, and that it's probably not serious enough to warrant Max's immediate intervention. Max decides to expedite matters and gives his short, sparse report, which thankfully doesn't complicate matters for the investigation and wraps matters up.

Max looks to Morse expectantly, normally the detective would be drawing all Max's work together for him, painting in the whys of what he'd found. Instead Morse was staring unblinkingly at the pavement. Max follows his gaze, but finds nothing of note there so concludes Morse's mind must be elsewhere. Thursday seems to take pity and gives Max a brief overview of the case. Max grimaces in all the right places, but finds himself not really listening, instead increasingly drawn to the bit of pavement wondering just that the detective is seeing. The sun is finally coming up, though tinged decidedly orange. The grimy air is cast into harsh relief. Morse's staring face is too pale.

A uniform comes running up with an urgent message for the inspector, action is decided upon, instructions ripple through the crowd. Somehow, through wrangling Max assigns to Thursday, there aren't quite enough cars for everyone. Somehow, Morse ends up in Max's passenger seat. Max knows that Morse not riding with Thursday is something that Morse would normally object to, so his silence on the matter, combined with Thursday's pointed look to Max as he shuts Morse in the car, is enough to make Max worried.

"Drawn the short straw rather," he says to Morse lightly.

Morse hums in vague agreement and settles in his seat. Again, his face looks uncomfortable as he shifts, and again he clutches his chest and coughs.

Max drums his fingers briskly on the steering wheel then silently reprimands himself. Fidgeting is a habit he refuses to start. Morse coughs again and Max takes it as his in.

"Awfully dry there wasn't it?" he says, "Really irritates my throat,"

"Yes," says Morse, "Not really my throat though," His voice is raspy, and Max can see why he wasn't talking earlier.

Max knows it isn't his throat, that it's more serious, but he knows how to delicately thread the needle of conversation with Morse.

"Breathe a lot in did you?" Max regrets, not for the first time, that his voice just isn't built to pitch sympathetically. Everything meant to be light and gentle comes out flippant.

Morse readjusts his jacket, but still can't seem to get comfortable.

"No, it was fine," he says, "Just when the roof came down, I must have swallowed some soot. That's all," The attempted smile is pitiful. Max thinks a man can't really smile when his face looks like Morse's does right now. Smeared with the ash, far too pale, mouth drawn too tight, eyes too wide and staring.

"The roof came down?" Max asks

"It was a fire," says Morse as contemptuously as his croak allows.

"I saw the building Morse. I meant that the roof came down whilst you were still in there?"

Morse moves in his seat again, swallows hard and coughs anyway.

The car's engine gets dangerously close to stalling as Max cuts speed around a corner. Alarmed he slams too hard on the clutch as he shifts gear downwards. Max considers himself a very precise driver. He knows precisely which gears to be going in at every speed either accelerating or decelerating in this car. He is not a person who stalls. He suppresses his annoyance at Morse causing him so much distraction.

"I believe," says Max, "It would take rather a lot of fire to bring the roof down. Either it was far faster than I thought, or you spent rather longer in there than you should have done,"

Morse puts his elbow on the window and tiredly rests his head on his palm. 

"Who did you follow Morse?"

Morse's answer, when it comes, is imbibed with weariness dragged from very bottom of his soul, "You met him. Professionally. You always meet them in the end. I don't.." He trails of weakly and shuts his eyes.

Max lets him brood. He hadn't really thought about that part of his relationship with Morse. Of course he meets the detective at the start of his cases, it's how a proportion of Morse's cases begin. He just hadn't thought of the times he meets Morse along the way. The people who Morse meets first, who he has to watch become victims on Max's table. He looks forward to his conversations with Morse, who of course he knows is squeamish about Max's work, but he'd never really thought about what he represents. Max being called in means another person Morse doesn't get to in time.

The road is empty but Max turns on his indicator anyway because he is that sort of driver. The car drifts to a stop on the grassy verge. Max cuts the engine.

Morse finally looks up at the sudden silence, "What are we doing?" he asks.

"We're just sitting in silence," says Max, "With no alcohol or opera to drown it out," 

Morse's expression is sour, "Thursday's been called to a robbery, we're meant to be heading to-"

"I know," says Max, "But the others can handle that,"

"If you won't let me do my job-"

"You currently appear to think your job is chasing people into burning buildings so if that _is_ your job excuse more for not hurrying to it,"

"I didn't set out to do that,"

"You never do," says Max gently,

"And besides," says Morse angrily, "is it _not_ my job? Every time I do something you, or Thursday or whoever pulls me up on it's always because I couldn't be faster or get there sooner,"

Max knows that there is no touching the impossible standards to which Morse holds himself. It doesn't stop him wincing every time they come to light.

"That is why," Max says carefully, "We're going to sit here whilst you think about the fact that is patently untrue,"

"Doctor there is-"

"I said silence Morse. Look out the window. Watch the sheep, count the blades of grass. Just stop self recriminating for five minutes. And give me the arm that you thought I had not noticed,"

Morse glares at him but obediently shuts up. Max picks up Morse's right arm. The sleeve of his jacket is half gone, and and the edges are blackened, dry and flaking away. Too much dust thinks Max ruefully, as he gently moves the blackened shirt underneath it. Max winces, professional detachment failing him. He never did have the stomach for burns on the living. Too close, Morse had been much too close.

"I can't treat it now," he says to Morse's expression, "It's going on the list along with your chest when we get to casualty though,"

He is gratified when Morse takes that silently, though he fully expects the protesting to start up again as soon as the car does.

"I can't give you penance detective," says Max, " and neither can that arm so take some painkillers if you have them,"

They sit for another minute in silence apart from the occasional pained cough. Max is anxious now to get to hospital. He steals a glance at Morse; Morse's face is still ashen, though his eyes look slightly calmer. If Max hadn't know better, he would have sworn the man was watching the clouds scudding by overhead.

"I'm going to start the car again," Max says.

"They'll all still be there," says Morse quietly.

"I know," says Max. And he does know. He knows that they'll still crowd into Morse's conscience the second the engine starts, the people he couldn't save, those running just too far ahead of him in the future still to come. 

Max knows, after five years of association with the detective, that Morse's ghosts aren't going away any time soon. The most he can offer is a scant few minutes of silence, when Morse has permission to breathe. No one can forgive Morse permanently save the man himself. For now he has to hope the silent times are enough.

"Your bag is dusty," says Morse as they set off. Max had temporarily forgotten about that predicament, and begins again to ruminate on the advantages of a mouldy basement as he rejoins the Oxford traffic.


End file.
